Ficlet: Harry/Louis, cry
Dec. 16th, 2018 07:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magicalrocketshipsANONYMOUS ASKED Louis and Harry: Cry
Originally posted here.
The first time Harry kisses him, it’s almost Christmas, and Louis is staying over at Harry’s stepdad’s place.
“Do you think I’m gay?” Louis asks, in the tense, desperate silence after Harry’s pressed his mouth to Louis’. His heart is pounding so loud that he’s fairly sure they can hear it back in fucking Doncaster. The light’s are off, and they’re curled up under the duvet in Harry’s bedroom. Harry’s hands are cupping Louis’ face, and Louis is hot and desperate and confused and broken all at the same time.
Harry’s breath catches, and he rests his forehead against Louis’. The kiss had barely been anything, just a little one, Harry’s mouth pressed to Louis’ for the longest of seconds. “I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I just—I wanted you to be. I’m sorry.”
“Harry,” Louis manages, because he doesn’t understand the inside of his own head right now, and he wants to cry. “Harry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, desperate. “I promise it won’t make any difference. It won’t make anything any different, I swear. I’m sorry. Oh, god. I’m sorry.”
Louis really, really wants to cry. His hand fists in Harry’s t-shirt. “You’re everything to me,” he says, because he knows that that’s the truth.
A sob catches in Harry’s throat, and he presses closer, the line of his thigh pressed up against Louis’. “I can’t be without you,” he says. “I’m sorry. Please. Don’t make it change anything.”
It’s changed everything. Everything’s different to how it was ten minutes ago. There’s the taste of Harry on his lips, and Louis doesn’t know how to make it go away. “It won’t,” he lies. His touch is a lie, because his hand is in the small of Harry’s back, his other hand fisted in his shirt, and his touch says, you’re everything, and, I need you, and, I can’t be without you. “I’m not gay,” he says, because if his touch is a lie, than everything out of his mouth should be too. His hand trembles on the hem of Harry’s shirt. “Harry, I’m not gay.”
"I know,” Harry says, and he stays perfectly still. Louis touches him in the small of his back, his fingertips to Harry’s skin. “I know.”
“This can’t happen,” Louis says, but he shifts a little, his legs opening up. Harry presses closer, his thigh brushing up against the inside of Louis’.
“I think about you every second of every day,” Harry tells him. He’s holding himself up, trembling under Louis’ fingertips. “I don’t want to.”
“Harry,” Louis manages, because he doesn’t know how to tell the truth anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell it in touches, or in words, or in the way Harry’s looking at him now, a faint blue glow from the DVD menu on the TV in the corner the only light. Every part of him is a lie, and he wants it to be the truth.
He slowly, desperately, carefully cups Harry’s dick in his hand. “I don’t get off on cock,” he says, but he’s hard, and Harry knows it. Harry rocks his hips up and into Louis’ hand. Louis can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. He just wants to breathe. “I think about you when I come,” he says, hiding his face in Harry’s neck.
Harry gasps out a breath, reaching out above them to steady himself on the headboard. He rocks down into Louis’ hand. “Make me come,” he says, and he presses his mouth to Louis’ jaw. “I want to think about you when I come.”
Louis isn’t gay, and he isn’t in love with Harry, but he shoves Harry’s underwear down anyway, cupping Harry’s dick in his hand. He’s shaking; he’s never done this before.
But he thinks about Harry when he gets himself off when he’s alone, thinks about Harry’s hands, and the length of him, his body covering Louis’, pinning him to the bed, holding him there and touching his dick. He thinks about Harry when he’s by himself, when it’s just him and his secrets, the endless fucking secret of Harry fucking Styles, and all the things Louis wants Harry to do to him.
He’s not fucking gay and he’s never fucking going to be, but he loves Harry so much it feels like if he could rip himself open, Harry would be there, in every crevice of his soul, and it hurts. It hurts.
“I love you,” Harry says, tilting Louis’ chin up. “I love you so much.”
Louis wraps his hand around Harry’s dick, and wanks him off, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. Harry is flushed and breathless and holding himself still over him; it’s not enough. It’s never, ever enough.
Harry comes. He comes all over Louis’ hand and his underwear, and then he crawls down the bed and waits for Louis to push his pants down, and then he slides his mouth down over Louis’ dick, and Louis cries.
He buries his hands in Harry’s hair, and tries not to sob, because there’s a part of him that wants this more than anything else in the world, and he can’t have it. He can’t have it.
His orgasm is wrenched from him, torn from that place inside of him that’s Harry’s and Harry’s alone. Harry swallows it down, and licks him clean, and then afterwards, when Louis is shaking with it, from trying to keep all of the broken parts of him locked up inside, Harry wraps him up into a tight, desperate hug.
“I’m not gay,” Louis says, his teeth chattering. The lie burns.
Harry just hugs him harder, and hides his face in Louis’ neck. “I know,” he says.
It hurts. It hurts so much, and Louis doesn’t know how to fix any of it.
Louis doesn’t fall asleep, and Harry doesn’t let go.
Originally posted here.
The first time Harry kisses him, it’s almost Christmas, and Louis is staying over at Harry’s stepdad’s place.
“Do you think I’m gay?” Louis asks, in the tense, desperate silence after Harry’s pressed his mouth to Louis’. His heart is pounding so loud that he’s fairly sure they can hear it back in fucking Doncaster. The light’s are off, and they’re curled up under the duvet in Harry’s bedroom. Harry’s hands are cupping Louis’ face, and Louis is hot and desperate and confused and broken all at the same time.
Harry’s breath catches, and he rests his forehead against Louis’. The kiss had barely been anything, just a little one, Harry’s mouth pressed to Louis’ for the longest of seconds. “I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I just—I wanted you to be. I’m sorry.”
“Harry,” Louis manages, because he doesn’t understand the inside of his own head right now, and he wants to cry. “Harry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, desperate. “I promise it won’t make any difference. It won’t make anything any different, I swear. I’m sorry. Oh, god. I’m sorry.”
Louis really, really wants to cry. His hand fists in Harry’s t-shirt. “You’re everything to me,” he says, because he knows that that’s the truth.
A sob catches in Harry’s throat, and he presses closer, the line of his thigh pressed up against Louis’. “I can’t be without you,” he says. “I’m sorry. Please. Don’t make it change anything.”
It’s changed everything. Everything’s different to how it was ten minutes ago. There’s the taste of Harry on his lips, and Louis doesn’t know how to make it go away. “It won’t,” he lies. His touch is a lie, because his hand is in the small of Harry’s back, his other hand fisted in his shirt, and his touch says, you’re everything, and, I need you, and, I can’t be without you. “I’m not gay,” he says, because if his touch is a lie, than everything out of his mouth should be too. His hand trembles on the hem of Harry’s shirt. “Harry, I’m not gay.”
"I know,” Harry says, and he stays perfectly still. Louis touches him in the small of his back, his fingertips to Harry’s skin. “I know.”
“This can’t happen,” Louis says, but he shifts a little, his legs opening up. Harry presses closer, his thigh brushing up against the inside of Louis’.
“I think about you every second of every day,” Harry tells him. He’s holding himself up, trembling under Louis’ fingertips. “I don’t want to.”
“Harry,” Louis manages, because he doesn’t know how to tell the truth anymore. He doesn’t know how to tell it in touches, or in words, or in the way Harry’s looking at him now, a faint blue glow from the DVD menu on the TV in the corner the only light. Every part of him is a lie, and he wants it to be the truth.
He slowly, desperately, carefully cups Harry’s dick in his hand. “I don’t get off on cock,” he says, but he’s hard, and Harry knows it. Harry rocks his hips up and into Louis’ hand. Louis can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. He just wants to breathe. “I think about you when I come,” he says, hiding his face in Harry’s neck.
Harry gasps out a breath, reaching out above them to steady himself on the headboard. He rocks down into Louis’ hand. “Make me come,” he says, and he presses his mouth to Louis’ jaw. “I want to think about you when I come.”
Louis isn’t gay, and he isn’t in love with Harry, but he shoves Harry’s underwear down anyway, cupping Harry’s dick in his hand. He’s shaking; he’s never done this before.
But he thinks about Harry when he gets himself off when he’s alone, thinks about Harry’s hands, and the length of him, his body covering Louis’, pinning him to the bed, holding him there and touching his dick. He thinks about Harry when he’s by himself, when it’s just him and his secrets, the endless fucking secret of Harry fucking Styles, and all the things Louis wants Harry to do to him.
He’s not fucking gay and he’s never fucking going to be, but he loves Harry so much it feels like if he could rip himself open, Harry would be there, in every crevice of his soul, and it hurts. It hurts.
“I love you,” Harry says, tilting Louis’ chin up. “I love you so much.”
Louis wraps his hand around Harry’s dick, and wanks him off, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. Harry is flushed and breathless and holding himself still over him; it’s not enough. It’s never, ever enough.
Harry comes. He comes all over Louis’ hand and his underwear, and then he crawls down the bed and waits for Louis to push his pants down, and then he slides his mouth down over Louis’ dick, and Louis cries.
He buries his hands in Harry’s hair, and tries not to sob, because there’s a part of him that wants this more than anything else in the world, and he can’t have it. He can’t have it.
His orgasm is wrenched from him, torn from that place inside of him that’s Harry’s and Harry’s alone. Harry swallows it down, and licks him clean, and then afterwards, when Louis is shaking with it, from trying to keep all of the broken parts of him locked up inside, Harry wraps him up into a tight, desperate hug.
“I’m not gay,” Louis says, his teeth chattering. The lie burns.
Harry just hugs him harder, and hides his face in Louis’ neck. “I know,” he says.
It hurts. It hurts so much, and Louis doesn’t know how to fix any of it.
Louis doesn’t fall asleep, and Harry doesn’t let go.
